Читать книгу Christmas Stories of Louisa May Alcott, The - Louisa May Alcott - Страница 5

The Quiet Little Woman

Patty stood at the window looking thoughtfully down at a group of girls playing in the yard below. All had cropped heads, all wore brown gowns with blue aprons, and all were orphans like herself. Some were pretty and some plain, some rosy and gay, some pale and feeble, but all seemed to be happy and having a good time in spite of many hardships.

More than once, one of the girls nodded and beckoned to Patty, but she shook her head decidedly and continued to stand listlessly watching and thinking to herself with a child's impatient spirit—

Oh, if someone would only come and take me away! I'm so tired of living here, and I don't think I can bear it much longer.

Poor Patty might well wish for a change; she had been in the orphanage ever since she could remember. And though everyone was very kind to her, she was heartily tired of the place and longed to find a home.

At the orphanage, the children were taught and cared for until they were old enough to help themselves, then they were adopted or went to work as servants. Now and then, some forlorn child was claimed by family. And once the relatives of a little girl named Katy proved to be rich and generous people who came for her in a fine carriage, treated all the other girls in honor of the happy day, and from time to time, let Katy visit them with arms full of gifts for her former playmates and friends.

Katy's situation made a great stir in the orphanage, and the children never tired of talking about it and telling it to newcomers as a sort of modern-day fairy tale. For a time, each hoped to be claimed in the same way, and listening to stories of what they would do when their turn came was a favorite amusement.

By and by, Katy ceased to come, and gradually new girls took the places of those who had left. Eventually, Katy's good fortune was forgotten by all but Patty. To her, it remained a splendid possibility, and she comforted her loneliness by dreaming of the day her "folks" would come for her and bear her away to a future of luxury and pleasure, rest and love. But year after year, no one came for Patty, who worked and waited as others were chosen and she was left to the many duties and few pleasures of her dull life.

People who came for pets chose the pretty, little ones; and those who wanted servants took the tall, strong, merry-faced girls, who spoke up brightly and promised to learn to do anything required of them. Patty's pale face, short figure with one shoulder higher than the other, and shy ways limited her opportunities. She was not ill now, but looked so, and was a sober, quiet little woman at the age of thirteen.

The good matron often recommended Patty as a neat, capable, and gentle little person, but no one seemed to want her, and after every failure, her heart grew heavier and her face sadder, for the thought of spending the rest of her life there in the orphanage was unbearable.

No one guessed what a world of hopes and thoughts and feelings lay hidden beneath that blue pinafore, what dreams this solitary child enjoyed, or what a hungry, aspiring young soul lived in her crooked little body.

But God knew, and when the time came, He remembered Patty and sent her the help she so desperately needed. Sometimes when we least expect it, a small cross proves a lovely crown, a seemingly unimportant event becomes a lifelong experience, or a stranger becomes a friend.

It happened so now, for as Patty said aloud with a great sigh, "I don't think I can bear it any longer!" a hand touched her shoulder and a voice said gently—

"Bear what, my child?"

The touch was so light and the voice so kind that Patty answered before she had time to feel shy.

"Living here, ma'am, and never being chosen as the other girls are."

"Tell me all about it, dear. I'm waiting for my sister, and I'd like to hear your troubles," the kindly woman said, sitting down in the window seat and drawing Patty beside her. She was not young or pretty or finely dressed. She was instead a gray-haired woman dressed in plain black, but her eyes were so cheerful and her voice so soothing that Patty felt at ease in a minute and nestled up to her as she shared her little woes in a few simple words.

"You don't know anything about your parents?" asked the lady.

"No, ma'am. I was left here as a baby without even a name pinned to me, and no one has come to find me. But I shouldn't wonder if they did come even now, so I keep ready all the time and work as hard as I can so they won't be ashamed of me, for I guess my folks is respectable," Patty replied, lifting her head with an air of pride that made the lady ask with a smile:

"What makes you think so?''

"Well, I heard the matron tell the lady who chose Nelly Brian that she always thought I came of high folks because I was so different from the others, and my ways was nice, and my feet so small—see if they ain't"—and slipping them out of the rough shoes she wore, Patty held up two slender, little feet with the arched insteps that tell of good birth.

Miss Murray—for that was her name—laughed right out loud at the innocent vanity of the poor child, and said heartily, "They are small, and so are your hands in spite of work. Your hair is fine, your eyes are soft and clear, and you are a good child I'm sure, which is best of all."

Pleased and touched by the praise that is so pleasant to us all, yet half ashamed of herself, Patty blushed and smiled, put on her shoes, and said with unusual animation—

"I'm pretty good, I believe, and I know I'd be much better if I could only get out. I do so long to see trees and grass, and sit in the sun, and listen to the birds. I'd work real hard and be happy if I could live in the country."

"What can you do?" asked Miss Murray, stroking Patty's smooth head and looking down into the wistful eyes fixed upon her.

Modestly, but with a flutter of hope in her heart, Patty recited her domestic accomplishments. It was a good list for a thirteen-year-old, for Patty had been working hard for so long that she had become unusually clever at all sorts of housework as well as needlework.

As she ended, she asked timidly, "Did you come for a girl, ma'am?"

"My sister-in-law, Mrs. Murray, did, but she found one she likes and is going to take her on trial." Her answer caused the light to fade from Patty's eyes and the hope to die in her heart.

"Who is it, please?" she asked.

"Lizzie Brown, a tall, nice-looking girl of fourteen."

"You won't like her, I know, for Lizzie is a real—" There Patty stopped short, turned red, and looked down as if ashamed to meet the keen, kind eyes fixed on her.

"A real what?"

"Please, ma'am, don't ask. It was mean of me to say that, and I mustn't go on. Lizzie can't help being good with you, and I am glad she has a chance to go away."

Aunt Jane Murray asked no more questions, but she noted the little glimpse of character, and tried to brighten Patty's mood by talking about something of interest to her.

"Suppose your 'folks,' as you say, never come for you, and you never find your fortune as some girls do, can't you make friends and fortune for yourself?"

"How can I?" questioned Patty, wonderingly.

"By cheerfully taking whatever comes, by being helpful and affectionate to all, and by wasting no time dreaming about what may happen, but bravely making each day a comfort and a pleasure to yourself and others. Can you do that?"

"I can try, ma'am," answered Patty, meekly.

"I wish you would, and when I come again, you can tell me how you are doing. I believe you will succeed, and when you do, you will have found for yourself a fine fortune and confident certainty of your friends. Now I must go. Cheer up, deary, your turn will come one day."

With a kiss that won Patty's heart, Miss Murray went away, casting more than one look of pity at the small figure sobbing in the window seat, with a blue pinafore over her face.

This disappointment was doubly hard for Patty because Lizzie was not a good girl and to her mind, did not deserve such good fortune. Besides, Patty had taken a great fancy to the lady who spoke so kindly to her.

For a week after this, she went about her work with a sad face, and all her daydreams were of living with Miss Jane Murray in the country.

Monday afternoon, as Patty stood sprinkling clothes for ironing, one of the girls burst in, saying all in a breath—

"Patty! Someone has come for you at last, and you are to go right up to the parlor. It's Mrs. Murray. She brought Liz back 'cause she told fibs and was lazy. Liz is as mad as hops, for it is a real nice place with cows and pigs and chickens and children, and the work ain't hard and she wanted to stay. Do hurry, and don't stand staring at me that way."

"It can't be me—no one ever wants me—it's some mistake—" stammered Patty, who was so startled and excited that she did not know what to say or do.

"It's no mistake," the girl insisted. "Mrs. Murray won't have anyone but you, and the matron says you are to come right up. Go along—I'll finish here. I'm so glad you have your chance at last!" And with a good-natured hug, the girl pushed Patty out of the kitchen.

In a few minutes, Patty came flying back in a twitter of delight to report that she was leaving at once and must say goodbye. Everyone was pleased, and when the flurry was over, the carriage drove away with the happiest little girl you have ever seen riding inside, for at last someone did want her. Patty had found a place.

During the first year Patty lived with the Murrays, they found her to be industrious, docile, and faithful—and yet she was not happy and had not found with them all she expected. They were kind to her, providing plenty of food and not too much work. They clothed her comfortably, let her go to church, and did not scold her very often. But no one showed that they loved her, no one praised her efforts, no one seemed to think that she had any hope or wish beyond her daily work; and no one saw in the shy, quiet little maiden a lonely, tenderhearted girl longing for a crumb of the love so freely given to the children of the home.

The Murrays were busy people with a large farm to care for. The master and his oldest son were hard at it all summer. Mrs. Murray was a brisk, smart housewife who "flew 'round" herself and expected others to do the same. Pretty Ella, the daughter, was about Patty's age and busy with her school, her little pleasures, and all the bright plans young girls love and live for. Two or three small lads rioted about the house making much work and doing very little.

One of these boys was lame, and this fact seemed to establish a sort of friendly understanding between him and Patty. In truth, he was the only one who ever expressed any regard for her. She was very good to him, always ready to help, always patient with his fretfulness, and always quick to understand his sensitive nature.

"She's only a servant, a charity girl who works for her board and wears my old clothes. She's good enough in her place, but of course she can't expect to be like one of us," Ella once said to a young friend—and Patty heard her.

"Only a servant.... " That was the hard part, and it never occurred to anyone to make it softer, so Patty plodded on, still hoping and dreaming about friends and fortune.

Had it not been for Aunt Jane, the child might not have gotten on at all. But Miss Murray never forgot her, even though she lived twenty miles away and seldom came to the farm. She wrote once a month and never failed to include a little note to Patty, which she fully expected would be answered.

Patty wrote a neat reply, which was very stiff and short at first. But after a time, she quite poured out her heart to this one friend who sent her encouraging words, cheered her with praise now and then, and made her anxious to be all Miss Jane seemed to expect. No one in the house took much notice of this correspondence, for Aunt Jane was considered "odd," and Patty posted her replies with the stamps her friend provided. This was Patty's anchor in her little sea of troubles, and she clung to it, hoping for the day when she had earned such a beautiful reward that she would be allowed to go and live with Miss Murray.

Christmas was coming, and the family was filled with great anticipation; for they intended to spend the day at Aunt Jane's and bring her home for dinner and a dance the next day. For a week beforehand, Mrs. Murray flew 'round with more than her accustomed speed, and Patty trotted about from morning till night, lending a hand to all the most disagreeable jobs. Ella did the light, pretty work, and spent much time fussing over her new dress and the gifts she was making for the boys.

When everything was done at last, Mrs. Murray declared that she would drop if she had another thing to do but go to Jane's and rest.

Patty had lived on the hope of going with them, but nothing was said about it. At last, they all trooped gaily away to the station, leaving her to take care of the house and see that the cat did not touch one of the dozen pies carefully stored in the pantry.

Patty kept up bravely until they were gone, then she sat down like Cinderella, and cried and cried until she could cry no more. It certainly did seem as if she were never to have any fun, and no fairy godmother came to help her. The shower of tears did her good, and she went about her work with a meek, patient face that would have touched a heart of stone.

All the morning she worked to finish the odd jobs left for her to do, and in the afternoon, as the only approach to the holiday she dared venture, Patty sat at the parlor window and watched other people go to and fro, intent on merrymaking in which she had no part.

Her only pleasant little task was that of arranging gifts for the small boys. Miss Jane had given her a bit of money now and then, and out of her meager store, the loving child had made presents for the lads—poor ones certainly, but full of goodwill and the desire to win some affection in return.

The family did not return as early as she had expected, which made the evening seem very long. Patty got out her treasure box and, sitting on the warm kitchen hearth, tried to amuse herself while the wind howled outside and the snow fell fast.

When Aunt Jane welcomed the family, her first word, as she emerged from a chaos of small boys' arms and legs, was "Why, where is Patty?"

"At home, of course; where else would she be?" answered Mrs. Murray.

"Here with you. I said 'all come' in my letter; didn't you understand it?"

"Goodness, Jane, you didn't mean to bring her, too, I hope."

"Yes, I did, and I'm quite disappointed. I'd go and get her myself if I had the time."

Miss Jane knit her brows and looked vexed, and Ella laughed at the idea of a servant girl going on holiday with the family.

"It can't be helped now, so we'll say no more and make it up to Patty tomorrow if we can." Aunt Jane smiled her own pleasant smile and kissed the little lads all 'round as if to sweeten her temper as soon as possible.

They had a capital time, and no one observed that Aunty, now and then, directed the conversation to Patty by asking a question about her or picking up on every little hint dropped by the boys concerning her patience and kindness.

At last, Mrs. Murray said, as she sat resting with a cushion at her back, a stool at her feet, and a cup of tea steaming deliciously under her nose, "Afraid to leave her there in charge? Oh, dear, no. I've entire confidence in her, and she is equal to taking care of the house for a week if need be. On the whole, Jane, I consider her a pretty promising girl. She isn't very quick, but she is faithful, steady, and honest as daylight."

"High praise from you, Maria; I hope she knows your good opinion of her."

"No, indeed! It wouldn't do to pamper a girl's pride by praising her. I say, 'Very well, Patty' when I'm satisfied, and that's quite enough."

"Ah, but you wouldn't be satisfied if George only said, 'Very well, Maria' when you had done your very best to please him in some way."

"That's a different thing," began Mrs. Murray, but Miss Jane shook her head, and Ella said, laughing—

"It's no use to try to convince Aunty on that point; she has taken a fancy to Pat and won't see any fault in her. She's a good enough child, but I can't get anything out of her; she is so odd and shy."

"I can! She's first rate and takes care of me better than anyone else," said Harry, the lame boy, with sudden warmth. Patty had quite won his selfish little heart by many services.

"She'll make Mother a nice helper as she grows up, and I consider it a good speculation. In four years, she'll be eighteen, and if she goes on doing so well, I won't begrudge her wages," added Mr. Murray, who sat nearby with a small son on each knee.

"She'd be quite pretty if she were straight and plump and jolly. But she is as sober as a deacon, and when her work is done, she sits in a corner watching us with big eyes as shy and mute as a mouse," said Ned, the big brother, lounging on the sofa.

"A dull, steady-going girl, suited for a servant and no more," concluded Mrs. Murray, setting down her cup as if the subject were closed.

"You are quite mistaken, and I'll prove it!" Aunt Jane announced, jumping up so energetically that the boys laughed and the elders looked annoyed. Pulling out a portfolio, Aunt Jane untied a little bundle of letters, saying impressively—

"Now listen, all of you, and see what has been going on with Patty this year."

Then Miss Jane read the little letters one by one, and it was curious to see how the faces of the listeners first grew attentive, then touched, then self-reproachful, and finally filled with interest and respect and something very like affection for little Patty.

These letters were pathetic, as Aunty read them to listeners who could supply much that the writer generously left unsaid, and the involuntary comments of the hearers proved the truth of Patty's words.

"Does she envy me because I'm pretty and gay and have a good time? I never thought how hard it must be for her to see me have all the fun and she all the work. She's a girl like me, and I might have done more for her than give her my old clothes and let her help me get dressed for parties," said Ella hastily as Aunt Jane laid aside one letter in which poor Patty told of many "good times and she not in 'em."

"Sakes alive! If I'd known the child wanted me to kiss her now and then as I do the rest, I'd have done it in a minute!" said Mrs. Murray, with sudden softness in her sharp eyes as Aunt Jane read this little bit—

"I am grateful, but, oh! I'm so lonely, and it's so hard not to have any mother like the other children. If Mrs. Murray would only kiss me good night sometimes, it would do me more good than pretty clothes or nice food."

"I've been thinking I'd let her go to school ever since I heard her showing Bob how to do his lessons. But Mother didn't think she could spare her," broke in Mr. Murray apologetically.

"If Ella would help a little, I guess I could allow it. Anyway, we might try for awhile, since she is so eager to learn," added his wife, anxious not to seem unjust in Jane's eyes.

"Well, Joe laughed at her as much as I did when the boys hunched up their shoulders the way she does," cried conscious-stricken Bob, who had just heard a sad little paragraph about her crooked figure and learned that it came from lugging heavy babies at the orphanage.

"I cuffed 'em both for it, and I have always liked Patty," said Harry, in a moral tone, which moved Ned to say—

"You'd be a selfish little rascal if you didn't, when she slaves so for you and gets no thanks for it. Now that I know how it tires her poor little back to carry wood and water, I shall do it myself, of course. If she'd only told me, I'd have done it all the time."

And so it went until the letters were done and they knew Patty as she was. Each felt sorry that he or she had not found her out before. Aunt Jane freed her mind on the subject, but the others continued to discuss it until quite an enthusiastic state of feeling set in, and Patty was in danger of being killed with kindness.

It is astonishing how generous and clever people are when once awakened to duty, a charity, or a wrong. Now everyone was eager to repair past neglect, and if Aunt Jane had not wisely restrained them, the young folks would have done something absurd.

They laid many nice little plans to surprise Patty, and each privately resolved not only to give her a Christmas gift but also to do the better thing by turning over a new leaf for the new year.

All the way home, they talked over their various projects, and the boys kept bouncing into the seat with Aunt Jane to ask advice about their funny ideas.

"It must have been rather lonesome for the poor little soul all day. I declare, I wish we'd taken her along!" said Mrs. Murray, as they approached the house through the softly falling snow.

"She's got a jolly good fire all ready for us, and that's a mercy, for I'm half frozen," said Harry, hopping up the step.

"Don't you think if I touch up my blue merino, it would fit Patty and make a nice dress along with one of my white aprons?" whispered Ella, as she helped Aunt Jane out of the sleigh.

"I hope the child isn't sick or scared. It's two hours later than I expected to be home," added Mr. Murray, stepping up to peep in at the kitchen window, for no one came to open the door and no light but the blaze of the fire shone out.

"Come softly and look in," he whispered, beckoning to the rest. "It's a pretty little sight even if it is in a kitchen.''

Quietly creeping to the two low windows, they all looked in, and no one said a word, for the lonely little figure was both pretty and pathetic when they remembered the letters lately read. Patty lay flat on the old rug, fast asleep with one arm pillowed under her head. In the other arm lay Puss in a cozy bunch, as if she had crept there to be sociable since there was no one else to share Patty's long vigil. A row of slippers, large and small, stood warming on the hearth, two little nightgowns hung over a chair, the teapot stood in a warm nook, and through the open door, they could see the lamp burning brightly in the sitting room, the table ready, and all things in order.

"Faithful little creature! She's thought of every blessed thing, and I'll go right in and wake her with a good kiss!" cried Mrs. Murray, darting for the door.

But Aunt Jane drew her back, begging her not to frighten the child by any sudden, unexpected demonstrations of affection. So they all went softly in—so softly that tired Patty did not wake, even though Puss pricked up her ears and opened her moony eyes with a lazy purr.

"Look here!" whispered Bob, pointing to the poor little gifts half tumbling out of Patty's apron. She had been pinning names on them when she fell asleep, and now her secret was known too soon.

No one laughed at the presents, and with a look of tender pity, Ella covered the few humble treasures in Patty's box. As she laid back, she remembered what she had once called "rubbish," how full her own boxes were with the pretty things girls love, and how easy it would have been to add to Patty's pitiful store.

No one exactly knew how to awaken the sleeper, for she was something more than a servant in their eyes now. Aunt Jane settled the matter by stooping down and taking Patty in her arms. The big eyes opened at once and stared up at the face above. Then a smile so bright, so glad, shone all over the child's face as she clung to Aunt Jane, crying joyously—

"Is it really you? I was so afraid you wouldn't come that I cried myself to sleep."

Never before had any of them seen such love and happiness in Patty's face, heard such a glad, tender sound in her voice, or guessed what an ardent soul dwelt in her quiet body.

She was herself again in a minute, and jumping up, slipped away to see that everything was ready should anyone want supper after the cold drive.

Soon the family went off to bed, and there was no time to let out the secret. Patty was surprised by the kind good nights everyone sent her way, but she thought no more of it than to feel that Miss Jane brought a warmer atmosphere to the home.

Patty's surprise began early the next day, for the first thing she saw upon opening her eyes was a pair of new stockings crammed full of gifts hanging at the foot of her bed and several parcels lying on the table.

What a good time she had opening the delightful bundles. She laughed and cried at the droll things the boys gave and the comfortable and pretty things the elders sent. Such a happy child was she that when she tried to say her prayers, she couldn't find words beautiful enough to express her gratitude for so much kindness!

A new Patty went downstairs that morning—a bright-faced girl with smiles on the mouth that used to be so sad and silent, confidence in the timid eyes, and the magic of the heartiest goodwill to make her step light, her hand skillful, her labor a joy, and service no burden.

They do care for me, after all, and I never will complain again, she thought with a glad flutter at her heart and sudden color in her cheeks as everyone welcomed her with a friendly, "Merry Christmas, Patty!"

It was the merriest Christmas ever, and when the bountiful dinner was spread and Patty stood ready to wait, you can imagine her feelings as Mr. Murray pointed to a seat near Miss Jane and said in a fatherly tone that made his gruff voice sweet—

"Sit down and enjoy it with us, my girl; nobody has more right to it, and we are all one family today."

Patty could not eat much, her heart was so full, but it was a splendid feast to her, and when toasts were drunk she was overwhelmed by the honor Harry did her, for he bounced up and exclaimed: "Now we must drink to 'Our Patty'—long life and good luck to her!"

That really was too much, and she fairly ran away to hide her blushes in the kitchen and work off her excitement washing dishes.

More surprises came that evening. When she went to put on her clean calico smock, she found the pretty blue dress and white apron laid ready on her bed along with a note that read, "With Ella's love."

"It's like a fairy story that keeps getting nicer and nicer since the godmother came," whispered Patty, as she glanced shyly at Aunt Jane.

"Christmas is the time for all sorts of pleasant miracles," answered Aunt Jane, smiling back at her little maiden, who looked so neat and blithe in her new dress and happy face.

Patty thought nothing further in the way of bliss could happen to her that night, but it did when Ned, anxious to atone for his past neglect, pranced up to her as a final dance was forming and said heartily—

"Come, Patty, everyone is to dance this one, even Harry and the cat!" And before she could collect her wits enough to say "No," she was leading off and flying down the middle with the young master, in great style.

That was the crowning honor, for she was a girl with all a girl's innocent hopes, fears, desires, and delights, and it had been rather hard to stand by while all the young neighbors were frolicking together.

When everyone was gone, the tired children asleep, and the elders on their way up to bed, Mrs. Murray suddenly remembered she had not covered the kitchen fire. Aunt Jane said she would do it, and went down so softly that she did not disturb faithful Patty, who had also gone to see that all was safe.

Aunt Jane stopped to watch the little figure standing on the hearth alone, looking into the embers with thoughtful eyes. If Patty could have seen her future there, she would have found a long life spent in glad service to those she loved and who loved her. Not a splendid future, but a useful, happy one—"only a servant" perhaps, yet a good and faithful woman, blessed with the confidence, respect, and affection of those who knew her genuine worth.

As a smile broke over Patty's face, Miss Jane said with an arm round the little blue-gowned figure—

"What are you dreaming and smiling about, deary? The friends that are to come for you someday, with a fine fortune in their pockets?"

"No, Ma'am, I feel as if I've found my folks. I don't want any finer fortune than the love they've given me today. I'm trying to think how I can deserve it, and smiling because it's so beautiful and I'm so happy," answered Patty, looking up at her first friend with full eyes and a glad glance that made her lovely.

THE EDITOR'S NOTES

The Quiet Little Woman

The world of Patty, the orphan girl, was one with which Louisa May Alcott was quite familiar. Louisa's mother had been one of the first paid social workers in the United States, and all of the Alcott family had a strong sense of social obligation. By the standards of their day, they would have been regarded as quite progressive in their views, and many times they showed themselves ready to help those in need even as they had been helped in their impecunious days.

Nevertheless, Louisa May Alcott would have found it strange indeed if anyone had suggested to her that there could be a general scheme for helping all in need regardless of an individual's efforts and personal morality. She herself had put forth Herculean efforts to write enough stories, including some rather gaudy thrillers, to pull the Alcott family out of debt. Naturally, she came to believe that individual effort made a difference.

In all her writing, Louisa's characters exhibit virtue and vice within a context of personal responsibility. Characters like poor Patty may indeed need a helping hand from someone like Aunt Jane—especially at Christmastime—but Patty must help too. She has powers of her own and a will of her own that she must draw on to accept her lot and find happiness where she can.

No one could tell Miss Alcott about the nature of poverty and privation because she knew of it firsthand, and she also knew that there really were people in the world who had earned, or were worthy of, a second chance, while there were others, like the bad maid Lizzie Brown, who "deserved nothing" and squandered her chance at a good life.

Perhaps we today need to learn a lesson from Miss Alcott and from Patty. All too often we are told there is no limit to what we can do and what personal peace, comfort, and satisfaction we may achieve—if only hindrances to opportunity could be swept from our path, perhaps by the church, perhaps by a social organization, perhaps by the mercy of the government itself, regardless of whether we are worthy of the opportunity or not.

But for Patty and Louisa May, moral character cannot be excluded as a factor in our own well-being and in what we make of ourselves and of our opportunities. As we awaken morally to what is charitable, truthful, and good, we awaken our own souls to moral transformation. If we have been dealt a bad hand by life, the virtue of accepting what has been dealt to us strengthens us to our challenge. Others have overcome through worthy endeavors; so can we.

Christmas is a good time to ponder these truths. Charity is a theme of the season, yet how charity is received is important too.

As Louisa May Alcott knew from her own observations, moral good is rewarded, often in this life, and surely in the world to come. Vice, on the other hand, gives us no aid in battling against the odds of going upstream. Most success and even peace are achieved by overcoming, and goodness helps us rise to our occasion and opportunity, no matter how rarely they might come.

True, it has been observed that sometimes the unworthy do prosper, but even that cannot take away from the satisfaction of virtue. For virtue itself is a reward, a prosperity to the soul, to be enjoyed equally by both the humble and the great.